Root.

(Photo by Americana Injustica - Monterey, California 2012)

(Photo by Americana Injustica – Santa Cruz, California 2015)

I have already, myself seen,

the things that you describe

when you write your poetry;

the sadness, and tears,

the move from overseas;

it’s not your words

that are ever lost on me –

it is these feelings,

the sweet things,

shining,

from you at me…

scary to me –

because alone, I be,

it’s very hard to allow

anyone else

close enough to me

to either love or despise

to spit in my eye,

and then you came on by;

and somehow,

you seemed to speak

to the roots

of my trees…

your dreams and mine

intertwined all the time,

a patterning,

a celebrated defeat,

I bow to your feet,

I do, you know –

it’s just fine

for you to let go;

I will not hurt

these truths that we

reciprocally know,

it’s not your words,

my darling premonition –

that keep worrying…

it’s this deep down curiosity,

ticking,

tocking,

chopping,

to the very center

of what’s feels

right and wrong to be.

2 thoughts on “Root.

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